The recent Syria debate in the House of Commons gave me an appetite – for the first time – for watching the Parliament channel on TV. The experience reminded me what an important part debate plays in democracy (as Bishop Richard Harries said on BBC Radio 4 next morning). But I also noticed - as did many others - just how easy it was to be swayed by a rousing speech.

As I watched the MPs, I paid as much attention to how they spoke as I did to their opinions. I only had time for a few of the speeches but I was especially moved by one – even though the speaker, Tom Tugendhat, was in favour of military action whereas I felt highly sceptical about it. When I listened to his speech again on the web next day, I noted that, after first making his view very clear, he went on to recall his own fear and nervousness as he prepared to go out to Iraq in 2003 as a member of the armed forces. He also expressed his sorrow in learning of the destruction of monasteries and murder of friends in Syria. It became obvious that he had spent many years in the Middle East.

So how does a speech like this work? This question prompted me to go back to Aristotle for some insights on rhetoric. A good orator, he maintained, employs three modes of persuasion: logos (argument or words), pathos (feeling) and ethos (which roughly means the speaker’s character or credibility). Tugendhat, by speaking from his own experience, certainly came across to me as genuine, and I think he did a good job of combining all three modes of persuasion.

In contrast, some of the other speeches irritated me by overdoing the pathos. A number of MPs focused on stirring strong feelings against Daesh but failed to explain why military action was necessary specifically. (The motion before the House did at least acknowledge that “military action against ISIL was only one component of a broader strategy to bring peace and stability to Syria”.) I therefore had sympathy with Caroline Lucas of the Green Party when she said: “Some of us are more committed than others to looking at the full range of measures in front of us, and looking at the evidence that suggests that bombing to date has not been successful.”

Next morning, on Radio 4, shadow chancellor John McDonnell (much quoted since) made what seemed to me a valid point about the risks of rhetoric (with ambiguous praise for the shadow foreign secretary's performance!):

“I thought Hilary [Benn]’s oratory was great. It reminded me of Tony Blair’s speech taking us into the Iraq War. I’m always anxious that sometimes the greatest oratory can lead us to the greatest mistakes, as well.”

McDonnell’s words prompted me to listen to Benn’s speech in full on the web. Benn's final plea that “We must now confront this evil. It is now time for us to do our bit in Syria” was hard to disagree with. But I just still wonder if military action will help. Only time will tell.

In the days following the vote, I happened to be reading Richard Sennett’s book “Together” and this got me thinking about the difference between debate and dialogue. The purpose of debate is typically to reach a collective opinion or decision within a limited time-frame. Dialogue, on the other hand, is a more open-ended exchange in which people may “become more aware of their own views and expand their understanding of one another”. Sennett suggests that modern society is much better at debate than dialogue. But, as he writes, it’s not “either-or”. We need both. That's a topic for another post, though...